Corn Cob

crumpled horn my make believe friend that sanitises chrome telecom with a hiss of her hand. the weather heats the vat of silken ties that escape to hide with the vipers of seldom.
i never thought i'd pass this wind again.
lesser days than this.
am i uncertain?
parlance passes by as if a floater; a memory stick; a USB and a USP. disgrace flaps a hidden half wing - a bat of choice hearkens to the village spat out from corroded lips like spittle from a dry fuck. as wholesome as this but not as it mought bar. a baracode for a bad monkey these days. unavoidable stains the minute changes they glue to code the pocket in the miasma of fulcrum bent. has been genuflects a frozen format. a style of rainbows like refidge-hounds bound for crowns that forest the damp patch, the moist crutch, the hallow hole of her risen skirt lips. we peel apart the bar stool to fold the hour small and flat into a glimmering of pike shafts.
hazy.
the plant pliant grins a stalk of ears.
my planet aches for thee on silver sperm. dresden ignites another dream as the fallout from hotels rise ash cover by the dirt track of embers.
of smolten.
smelting.
meltdown.